


The Scent of You

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshot for the prompt: touch, wearing each other's clothes</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leighm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=leighm).



Sam stared out the window at the ocean, waves drizzled with gold from the rising sun. For a moment, he considered waking Dean up so that they could watch the sunrise together and then, sighing, just rested his forehead against the glass. Whether or not Dean actually appreciated the view, he’d find something to bitch about. The rocky stretch of beach would be too isolated, or the sun too bright, or the waves too small.

Something.

He’d been complaining nonstop since they’d arrived at the cottage last week, not that Sam had really expected anything different. Dean hated laying low at the best of times—too restless, too full of a need to be out _doing_ something—but Henricksen couldn’t have picked a worse moment for his nation-wide manhunt if he’d tried. Not when Dean had less than eight months left to live.

Sam winced as his chest gave a painful spasm. Jesus, it all came back to that, didn’t it? Like the looming deadline that held him sleepless at night was a lodestone, and he and Dean were tiny metal filings sliding inexorably toward it across a smooth, empty table. There were no obstacles to catch up against: nothing to slow their approach. Only the demon standing at the finish line, her lips twisted up in a smile that haunted Sam’s fragmented dreams. Only that bitch waiting for Dean’s year to run out.

For Sam to fail his brother one last time.

 _Not gonna happen,_ he thought, clenching his hands on the windowsill. She wasn’t getting her hands on Dean. Not in eight months, not ever.

The creak of the wooden floorboards behind Sam alerted him to his brother’s approach, but he didn’t turn around. He was too afraid his face would give the tenor of his thoughts away.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, pressing up against his back. The brush of his shirt was rough against Sam’s skin, but Dean’s legs, when they twined with his, were bare.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam answered softly as he leaned back against his brother’s chest. Strong arms circled his waist, the fingers of Dean’s right hand playing idly across his stomach.

“Guess I didn’t work you hard enough last night.” His voice was rough: edged with desire.

Sam suppressed an amused smile. Dean’s libido could give a teenager a run for his money. “Guess not.”

Dean slid his right hand lower and Sam let himself thrust forward into the touch. Dean pumped him once, ghosting his thumb over the head of Sam's cock. Then, with a final, teasing caress, he stepped away. Headed back toward the bedroom.

Sam turned around, ready to follow. At the sight of his brother—of what Dean was wearing—his breath hissed out in surprised arousal.

Dean tossed a glance back over his shoulder. “You coming?” he asked, pausing in the bedroom doorway. His hair was tousled from sleep and sex, but his eyes were bright and aware. Knowing. The shirt— _Sam’s_ shirt—hit him mid-thigh in a pretense of modesty.

Dean _knew_ what that did to him, damn it. And Sam could tell that he also knew what Sam had been doing out here: knew where his thoughts had been. He’d put Sam’s shirt on deliberately, the manipulative jerk.

Of course, just because Sam had figured out that Dean was trying to distract him with this whole seduction routine, didn’t mean that it wasn’t working.

It took him three strides to cross the living room and then he was grabbing his brother by the back of his neck and hauling him in for a kiss. Dean made a hungry noise and fisted his hands in Sam’s hair, his mouth opening wide and accommodating. Sam dropped one hand to curl around his brother’s thigh and turned to press him up against the closest available vertical surface.

Dean gave a low grunt as his back hit the doorframe and he broke the kiss to complain, “Not the most comfortable position, man.”

“Tough shit,” Sam answered, hoisting Dean’s leg higher and lining himself up.

It was messy and fast and hard, and when it was over Sam dropped his head onto his brother’s shoulder and let Dean lay soft, gentle kisses on the side of his neck. He could smell himself on the shirt and, beneath that, Dean. Their scents mingled to form something warm and vibrant and _alive_.

Sam shut his eyes and drew in shuddering breath after shuddering breath. Aftershocks were running through his muscles, but he ignored them in favor of drawing Dean closer: of pressing against him so tightly that he knew he was leaving bruises.

“She can’t have you,” he whispered.

Dean’s mouth stilled on Sam’s neck for a moment, and then his lips curled up into a smile. It was difficult to tell just through touch what kind of smile it was, but Sam suspected that he didn’t want to know anyway.

“You’re a possessive son of a bitch, you know that?” Dean murmured, and then pressed a final, lingering kiss to the top of Sam’s head. “Now get off me and let’s get back to bed. It’s too fucking early.”

Sam’s lips twitched as he raised his head. “But not too early for fucking.”

Dean’s chuckle reverberated through Sam’s chest where they were still pressed against each other. “Dude, it’s _never_ too early for fucking.”

Sam laughed along with his brother at that, and felt the fist around his heart loosen. The pressure wasn’t gone—wouldn’t be until he’d shoved that damned deal down the demon’s throat—but it was at least in remission. He let Dean lead him back to the bed and then reached out a hand to stop him as he started unbuttoning the shirt.

“Leave it on,” Sam said. “I want—I need—” He stumbled to a stop, unable to admit aloud how much he needed to claim Dean: how much he needed to mark Dean as his for as long as he could keep him.

For a wonder, instead of arguing, Dean just nodded and then climbed into the bed. When Sam got in after him, Dean rolled over and draped himself over him like a warm, reassuring blanket. Comforted by that solid weight, Sam drifted off to sleep again to the feel of Dean’s heart beating out a counterpoint to his own, and to his brother’s whispered confession.

“Yeah, me too.”


End file.
